Ozzie Fitch: Chapter 4
The Chant. The Chant. The Chant.
Chant freed me. Chant showed me the real world. Chant sang to me. Chant carried me. Chant gave me everything. Chant brought me home. Chant gave me home. Chant was life. Chant was real. Chant was clear and crisp in a world of fuzzy moldy brown. Chant helped me talk. Chant gave me a direction, and that direction was every direction. Chant gave me the world. Chant opened doors. Chant closed windows. Chant tore down the curtains. Chant gave me me. Gave me them. Gave me. Gave.
Chant is everything.
When I was young, wanted magic like Merlin. Fantasy. Fire at the fingertips. With a snap. Learned quick, no such thing. That’s stupid magic. Lazy. Boring. Aimless. Flexing your muscles at the gym like muscles mean anything. That’s not magic.
The Chant is in the circles. The whisper. The shadows and underground. Subtle like, all winks and nods. Looks. That’s truth. Without circles, there’s no magic.
In the old days, it used to be herbs and spices, dead skins and painted faces. Now, it’s chicken-wing bones and old weed. Grease and oil soaked wrappers are just as good as mystic oils. Rat droppings have everything you need to make a potion. Flashlights and lighters are good enough for candles, and used Chinese carton is enough of a cauldron. Part of the world now. Hermit crabs use cans now, instead of shells. You know that? Our garbage, it’s natural. Nothing more natural than chant.
It’s not prayer. Lota religious people find the chant, think it’s god they chanting to. It’s not. Think the right words and the right sacramental wine make miracles happen? No. It’s not God, it’s the real magic. Got recipes and everything. The chant isn’t that fake magic. Fake magic is you snap your fingers. Abracadabra. None of that in a circle. Chant is more than magic. It works. It taps into the real power of the universe. It’s a system deeper than a system. No cogs in a human body, only bloodflow. Cellular division as the chant works through the world. The chant is a key that opens the locks keeping us apart from the world.
It turns us into witches and wizards, magicians and sorcerers. It lets us behind the curtains, where no one can see us. That’s why we’re overlooked. We chose to be. It gives us power. Knowledge. Access to the real system.
Everyone chants. In the head or the heart. But then you have to do the impossible. Turn it to words. Feelings to sounds. Tear the H and T off your heart. Vibrations in the chest to the air, back and forth. Back and forth. It’s like quivering. Shaking. Fill the air with fear. The one piece of yourself that’s been hidden inside, now bared for all to see, to hear, to feel. That’s the chant. English, Mandarin, Swahili, it doesn’t matter. It’s personal. It’s you. It’s truth. Hundred truth.
We all hear your chant, but it’s not the truth, it’s a mockery of sound and fear, filtered through centuries of the system pushing a primal scream into dipthongs and phonemes. It’s all different. They think they know you when you chant, but it’s never the same.
What did we chant for? All of us, different things.
Darling Darla chanted for little things. Scraps. Cute things. Like picking flowers. Wanted gloss and cake, little shines that twinkled when she walked. Tickets and evenings out. Moments. Things she could have gotten without the chant. No good at it. Never got better. But chanted anyway. That’s why I loved her, truth.
JJ, before he left, he chanted angry. When he chanted for himself, it was always for himself. Chanted for all the things he could never have. Like a body builder. A bit of everything. Luck. Strength. Smarts. Love. Green. Everything he didn’t want to work for, he chanted for. Never thought it worked. Always complained after, sometimes before, how it was a waste. Nothing but hot air; not hard work. But chanting was hard work. For some of us. We got what we deserved.
Leon, the nut, cared about the past. He did research. Found old books in libraries and thought it made a difference. Thought he’d know more than us. Chanted against everything. Tried to be a hero, the nut, but never relaxed. Wasn’t angry, like JJ, but passionate. Poor Leon, he cared. Was a chant-slave. Chant can’t fix everything, but he thought it could. No consequences for Leon. Chanted for punishments. Bad Boots. Rich thieves. Cruel parents. The nut, are there any who aren’t? Truth, I think he was frightened. Wanted poor people to have homes, and rich people to give away money. Called it justice, the nut. The Chant wasn’t justice. Justice was a dusty thing.
Cindy chanted like a priest. Always quiet, Cindy was. When I first found Binny and the circle I thought she was a real nine. Thought we could roll together. She brushed me off, like dust. Prefers girls, I think. Weird girl, Cindy, never alonely when no one was around her. Had her own circle in her head, maybe. Chanted for friends. Family. Not her family, but family. Not blood, just water. You know, chosen. Sometimes cried, never had a smile. Sad girl, but snapped back. I’d still roll her.
Ribber wasn’t a real wizard. Always chanted for sex, like a dog for a bone. Always chasing skirt, chanting for the big one. Sometimes chanted for money, because he had a girl he wanted to keep. Never did. Ribber, the dog, chanted with a grin on his face, like he had it all. Never had it. Never got it. Hundred truth, I think he didn’t actually want it. Just wanted to want it. Not a real wiz.
Binny, now he was a real wizard. Sensible. Kind. Like Buddha, sat on his cushion and chanted. Not like us, but poetry. Smooth and curling, like smoke from his mouth. Could have sung his chants. Couldn’t tell what they were, because he had the knack. The knack of heart to sound. Could have been anything, and we wouldn’t have known. Binny never said what he chanted for. Just winked, and smiled, and smoked. Hundred truth, I don’t know if his chants worked. Had to have. Sounds of the universe, like static. His voice was like a fizzing brain. Like some bloated guru, smiling through his smoky haze, he sat and chanted for others. Made us feel like shit.
Me? Doesn’t matter. Nothing important. Everything important. Wanted my brain to sizzle, blot out the world. Just listen to the universe. Wanted another hit. Another bite. Another kiss. A dip in the pool. Smooth and oil-like. Pistons turning, gears cranking, all together like. Chant to see the belts. Wanted the levers in hand so I could let them go. Wanted the hiss of steam and radioactive echoes. White and black make gray. Gray matter. Where I am, between the sheets. Touch where it’s smooth and slick, slide away. Vanish between among the different non-colors.
Like poetry. It’s not the words. Words are fear. It’s the scream that makes your heart beat. In your chest. Words knock about and make new words. The chant, it doesn’t need words.
That’s how I became a real chanter. No, that’s the start. Takes years to be a real chanter. Truth. Kids show up, say they know a chant, think that’s all it is. It’s not. Real chanters take time. Takes suffering.
Binny’s suffered. JJ suffered. Leon suffered. Even Ribber suffered. Fool’s got a shit-end job waving signs at cars for green. Barely makes enough to eat. Gets food from friends, never begs. They give it to him. Cindy, I guess she suffered. I suffered. Truth, I suffered. I really did. Suffering is real.
Feels good, not being a cog. Good to be free. System grinding gears not juicing me up. Ads don’t work on old Oz. Can’t buy when you don’t have green. Can’t want what you can’t have. We gutter-snipes are beyond the system. You can’t touch us. We safe. We free.
Didn’t take long before I told Darla about the chant. She thought I was crazy, natch, no such thing as magic. But Old Oz knows, and so I didn’t push. Never push. When they jump, it’s special. So I ask her along, is all. Meet the group.
Little lie. Thought she could be a seventh. See, Binny has a thing about seven. Seven’s important. If there’s seven, makes it better, somehow. Me, not so sure, but Binny’s a real sage, so I don’t add grit. He must know something.
You’re supposed to ask your circle. I didn’t. It was sudden, right? No time to call everyone up, please and thanks, get the go from everyone. Beg forgiveness, not permission, right? So I brought Darla to Binny’s digs.
I didn’t live at Binny’s. That’s the surf, see? Couch to couch. Sometimes found a bit of floor or old mattress in someone’s apartment. Someone I knew, natch, not random. Not a home, but you have a place. Binny had space and I was part of his circle. That simple. I had clothes in a closet. A couch if I needed it.
But you sleep where you can get it. Sometimes a flop. Sometimes a couch. A week after I started squeezing Darla, started to spend the night at her place. In her bed. We roll hard, and sleep soft. Take a tab or a stick and spend the night staring at colors. Not a home.
Binny’s, that was my place. Leon’s place too, and Cindy and Ribber and Darla. Used to be JJ’s too. Still remember JJ standing in the doorway, hands on hips, yelling. Can see Leon lying back on the couch, blowing smoke into the air with a grin on his face, the nut. I knew the walls, the feel of the carpet, the soft spots on the chairs and the creak of the rusty fridge. Cindy lies on the ground a lot, back against the couch arm. Smell of sour soda in the air from Ribber. Giggling about something.
Binny, sitting there in his chair. Always sitting in the same chair, blowing the same smoke. Rings around his head like clouds around a mountain peak. Filled the room with himself.
Met the group. Not Paula, she had left. We were six, and Binny wanted seven. Thought Darla could be seven. Real nice. Fitting.
Binny, he up and downs her like a master, sees what others don’t see, and he gives a shrug. “Fine,” he says. “She wants to stay, she can stay.”
“Hell yeah,” Ribber’s happy. He gets to stare. She didn’t dress to the nines, but Ribber doesn’t care. He stares all the same. Darla doesn’t mind, she likes being looked at, and Ribber knows not to touch. I swat him anyway.
“You know anything?” Cindy doesn’t even look at Darla. Just keeps lying on the couch, smoking and staring at the ceiling. I don’t know why. Cindy’s always on about having more girls in the circle. Says she doesn’t like being the only one. I don’t know that’s true. “You taught her anything, Oz?”
“She’s smart,” I say. “She sees. She’s one of us.”
“More to the chant than smart,” Leon says, the nut. Where does he get these ideas? Crazy. I get antsy. I want to chant. Want my brain to sizzle. Want to roll Darla while the cosmos flows through our veins. That’s smart. What else is it?
Darla, my Darling Darla, she’s giggling on the couch, white teeth behind red pillows, all light and summer. “I’ll just watch,” she says.
“Fuck?” JJ barks like a dog. Always angry, old JJ. “Fuck she is!”
Leon’s frowning, shaking his head, trying to act all important and powerful, the nut. “Too dangerous. She don’t know what we’re doing.”
“I’m okay with it,” Ribber’s grinning, staring at Darla’s tits. I throw an empty can at him.
“The fuck!” JJ points with all his fingers, like he’s chopping wood. “What’s the point? We going to perform like monkeys? We’re not clowns, for fuck’s sake! She going to watch, we only got six, and six doesn’t work!”
“Okay,” Darla’s smiling, looking around like a tourist. All a game. She’s separate.
“She doesn’t want, she doesn’t want.” Leon shrugged. “Besides, it’s dangerous, chanting without knowing. Might backfire. Safer she watches.” The nut. Nothing dangerous about Darla chanting.
“We need seven, right?” JJ turned to Binny, all mad, grit grinding the gears. “Seven or our chants won’t work. That’s what you said.”
Binny, the sage, just sits there, smoking, and gives a shrug. “Might work, might not. Seven’s better.”
“What the fuck,” JJ crosses his arms all mad like.
“Why you care?” Cindy asks with a smile and a sneer. “You don’t think it works anyway.”
JJ’s mouth goes flat, a thin line. He glares at Binny and lays it down, like law. “If she’s not chanting, I’m out. I’m done.”
“Chill, little match,” Cindy rubs her eyes as she looks at the ceiling. “Slow the fuse.”
“Hey, we gonna chant?” Ribber rubs his knees, all eager. Like a puppy. “I got a good one. Redhead.”
“Shut up,” I say. “Not supposed to say.”
Darla, my Darling Darla, is giggling like mad. “I’ll do it,” she gasps. “I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’ll do it.”
“She doesn’t know what she’s doing,” JJ points with his hand again. “It’s not going to work. Why bother if it’s not going to work?”
“You don’t think it works anyway.”
“Doesn’t work without Seven, you said,” JJ crosses his arms again. Points again. Crosses his arms again.
Binny just smiles, and shrugs, and smokes. A real sage.
“So she’s ruining it?” JJ’s fuming. “Can just sit and watch ‘cuz she’s Ozzie’s squeeze?”
This makes Darla laugh. We’re not formal. She told me she might roll with someone else if she wants. I’m not greedy. But I like the idea that Old Oz is someone’s pass.
“Chill, matchstick.” Cindy takes another puff. “You’re roughing the place up. Grit everywhere.”
“I don’t care,” Ribber chips in. “Could be fun.”
“Seven.” Binny says, like proclamation.
“Right.” JJ’s red, now. “Right. That’s it. I am done.” Grabs his jacket and shoves me aside. I shove him back, but he’s gone. Out the door, on the street. Always leaving, JJ was. Cindy sighs, taking another puff. Hasn’t put it out yet.
Darla just kept smiling. Didn’t care about JJ. Didn’t feel the grit in the room. Just looking everywhere and smiling, dancing through the room on tiptoe around the cans and ashtrays. Made the whole place shine.
So we chant. We try. Could barely concentrate, my mind on her nipples were they pushed out from her shirt, pointing at me. Made it pretty. We shared looks across the room. She didn’t know what she was doing, but she tried.
Might have worked. Chanted for Prosperity: that’s a good one. Get green or something valuable ‘cross your path. Gave it to Darla, so she’d see the chant’s real. After the chant, Darla’s laughing. “You’re a real wizard, Oz,” she laughs. Says it all the time, now, the joke never as funny as she wants it to be. I’d tell her, but it’s like frogs, they say. No one’s interested, and the frog’s dead afters. Old Ozzie doesn’t squeeze no dead frog.
Leon calls me wiz too, trying to fit in, show his stripes. Darla laughs at him too. Nut. She laughs a sexy laugh, all milk and sugar. Spices. She could dress a two, with baggy elastic pants and wooly-sheep sweater, no color, no gel, and if she laughs, I’d drop my pants in a second.
“You’d drop your pants for a commuter-train,” she laughed, once, when I told her. “You need your rocks blown like an alarm clock. Gets you up in the morning, doesn’t it?”
The joke was funnier, so we duck inside a coffee shop, head to the restroom.
“You make me feel good,” she said, whispering through her soft pink lips. “I like you inside me, rubbing me, making me feel good. Like you want to.”
“You say something?” I whispered back. She didn’t like that, so I kissed her like I knew she wanted me to. She squirmed and whimpered all sexy. We were done in ten. Let Ribber have his redhead. I have my darling.
She became our seventh. No one seemed to mind, except Cindy. She’s jealous, I think. And JJ, but JJ always minds. Darla, she never got much better at the chant, but she still came. Thought it was a laugh. Said it was something to do. I knew she’d learn.
When she saw the truth, she’d learn.